


i would definitely fight you for a can of soup

by sixturns



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, One Shot, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:18:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4135473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixturns/pseuds/sixturns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>we’re both sick and we both grabbed for the last can of soup at the store au</p>
            </blockquote>





	i would definitely fight you for a can of soup

Clarke decided that, for all of the perks living on her own afforded her, having no one she could send to the store to pick up soup firmly outweighed all of it. She had chosen Ark Hospital to do her residency mostly because it was as far away from her mother as possible. (Not that it wasn’t a good hospital, but distance may or may not have been a deciding factor.) Clarke had very few qualms about moving to the other side of the country. It was independence! (and the separation from her mother and being her mother’s daughter that she’d craved since her father died.) 

But being across the country also meant Wells wasn’t around to buy her a sympathy can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle when she was under the weather; her options here severely limited those possibilities. 

Clarke had been stuck on the couch in front of her TV for hours. Maybe days. She’d lost track of time after the seventh episode in a 24-hour SVU marathon. A nuclear apocalypse could have occurred and she would still be anchored firmly to her couch watching Benson and Stabler save Jennifer Love Hewitt from a creepy stalker rapist.

Eventually, when she woke up from some kind of fever dream involving a spaceship crashing to earth, Clarke decided she needed to eat. Her stomach felt like it was trying to turn inside out and eat itself, and she figured that wasn’t the greatest way to encourage her body to get better. She was a doctor. She should know these things. 

There was a small family-owned supermarket a block away from her apartment building, warm and quaint and stocked with just enough name brands to balance out the host of local products. Clarke pulled on some sweats and a hoodie, pulling the string so it bunched up around her face. It was 80 degrees outside but she was freezing, chills running down her spine and raising goosebumps on her arms. Her head felt foggy, and sounds seemed to be reaching her ears through a dozen layers of cotton. 

Grabbing her keys and wallet, Clarke left her apartment hoping she wouldn’t see any of her coworkers. Her building was close to the hospital, near enough that walking on nice days wasn’t much of an issue, and a lot of the staff was peppered around in a ten mile radius. 

She kept her gaze cast downward and miraculously did not run into any innocent bystanders. Her face felt warm when she reached the supermarket, peeking up at the sign to make sure she was at the right place. _Grounders,_ it read. _Family-owned since 1957._

The door in front of Clarke opened on its own, sliding with a grating screech. She winced, heading inside with a single-minded determination. Clarke’s goal was to obtain a can of chicken noodle soup and then barricade herself back in her apartment. She’d survived med school, she could definitely survive this. Hopefully. 

Grounders had seven aisles, a produce section, a pharmacy, and a small bakery. Soup was located in aisle six, which might as well have been like journeying across the Sahara with only a drop of water left in her canteen. 

The second she entered the aisle, it was as if she suddenly developed tunnel vision. Clarke saw only the rack of soups, the sickness relief they promised, and nothing else, especially not the rather tall man also wearing a hoodie and reaching for the same can of chicken noodle she was. 

The man’s arm jerked in surprise, loosening his grip on the can. It fell straight into Clarke’s waiting palm. 

“Hey!” The man said, reaching forward and grabbing it from Clarke. She frowned. “Get your own fucking soup.”

“There is an entire rack of soups. You can find another one.”

He crossed his arms, the can nestled in the crook of his elbow as if he was cradling a precious child. “This is the last can of chicken noodle. That’s the only one I buy.” The more he spoke, the more Clarke picked up on the sickly, nasal quality of his voice. 

Clarke looked up and glared at him. Her head was pounding and she was wishing she’d never left the safety and warmth of her couch, but there was no fucking way in hell she was going to let some guy boss her around over a can of chicken noodle soup.

“And that’s a good enough reason for you to have grabbed it straight out of my hand? Didn’t anyone teach you manners?”

“I had it first before you barreled into me like a goddamn _linebacker._ ”

“ _Excuse me?_ We were both reaching toward it and you dropped it, which definitely forfeits the ownership rights you _did not have._ ” 

The man scowled, and Clarke noticed dark bags beneath his eyes, the slight sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. He must be sick, too. She couldn’t imagine that she looked any better than he did. 

_Too fucking bad,_ Clarke thought, because she was prepared to die before she left this store without the can of chicken noodle soup. (In the back of her mind, Clarke briefly pondered the fact that she was clearly willing to fight someone in a supermarket for some soup. Her priorities might’ve been a little misaligned.)

To prove a point, mostly just to herself, Clarke reached forward and grabbed the can from the man’s embrace. In one second, it was hers, and in the next, the man had a hand clasped over Clarke’s, their mutual grip crinkling the label. Poor Campbell. 

“Are you fucking _serious--_ ”

“Bell!” The man was interrupted by the sudden materialization of a girl right beside him. Both he and Clarke jumped back in shock, dropping the can. It hit the ground with a loud thud, breaking open and spilling it’s contents all over the tiled floor. 

Clarke thought she might cry. 

“Bellamy!” The girl said again, and this time Clarke looked at her. She was significantly shorter than the man next to her, which meant that Clarke didn’t have to arch her neck to meet her eyes. The girl hit the man in the shoulder, and he pouted. “What are you doing harassing this girl in the soup aisle?”

Clarke was going to say everything was fine, until Bellamy exclaimed in immediate outrage “I wasn’t harassing her! If anyone was doing the harassing, it was _her._ ”

She narrowed her eyes at him before focusing her attention on the girl. “Hi, I’m Clarke.” She almost reached out a hand for her to shake, then remembered that she was sick and that’s what got her into this whole mess in the first place. “Speaking of harassment, everything was fine until your friend here decided to wrench a can of chicken noodle soup from my hands.” To gain some sympathy points, she sniffled and looked dejectedly down at the small puddle near their feet. 

Bellamy was looking at her with a mix of rage and disgust, opening his mouth to say something before the girl cut him off again with a look that clearly said _Shut up or I’ll kill you in your sleep._

“I’m so sorry about him, my brother regresses into a tantrum-throwing toddler whenever he’s sick. Thinks everything on earth is meant to cater to him.” She chuckled and Bellamy looked slightly betrayed. “I’m Octavia, by the way. And, no offense, but you look fucking terrible.”

Clarke spared a light laugh. “None taken. This is the first time I’ve left my apartment all day. I’ve spend the whole weekend sick.”

“And you decided the best thing to do was to fight someone in a soup aisle?” Bellamy spat.

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “Listen, asshole, that soup can on the floor is clearly not my fault, if you hadn’t decided to act like a fucking neanderthal and hold onto it like your life depended on it, we wouldn’t be having this issue right now.”

“You’re calling _me_ the neanderthal? At least I didn’t purposely knock into you like it was my fucking job, waiting for the whole world to move out of the way for me, _Princess._ ”

“My name is _Clarke_ , dickwad--”

Octavia moved in between them then, placing a hand on both of their mouths and effectively shutting them up. “Okay! Both of you, we’re in a supermarket, not a ring. There may be tiny child ears in the general vicinity.” 

Bellamy pouted and Clarke had the wild urge to punch it off his face. “She started it,” he muttered, voice muffled behind Octavia’s hand. 

“I don’t care who started it! This clearly isn’t the place to have it out. Clarke, did you drive here?”

Clarke shook her head. 

“Great! Then you want to come back to our place and have some soup? My mom had this killer recipe for chicken noodle and I’m sure I could resurrect it.”

“O! We don’t even know her! She could be an axe murderer, for all we know.”

Clarke gave Bellamy a flat look, gently moving Octavia’s hand from her face. “I can assure you that I am not an axe murderer. Also, that sounds great. I’m in.” In any other circumstance, Clarke would have politely declined, but she liked Octavia and she liked making Bellamy uncomfortable. It was a win-win situation. 

“Then it’s all settled!” Octavia smiled brightly. “Follow me!”

***

(The chicken noodle soup was so good Clarke actually cried into her bowl as she spooned it into her mouth, and before leaving she exchanged numbers with Octavia because there was no way she was ever going to go without that soup ever again. Bellamy was not pleased. Clarke didn’t really care.)

**Author's Note:**

> so this is my first ever fic for the 100, and i wrote it mostly because i was bored and this prompt showed up on my dash and i thought it was funny. feedback is appreciated!


End file.
